"Hell, I don't know," Kerney said, following suit.
"I'll think of something."
"We walk a little," Stiles announced.
"The trail gets rough for the next mile. Horses don't like it much."
The barranca dropped quickly past a series of volcanic flows that jutted against the deep cliff. The live stream at the bottom of the canyon undercut the vertical flows, creating an uneven line of columns suspended above the water. Stiles and Kerney waded around slippery rocks and plodded through the soft sand of the streambed under a canopy of evergreens. Cottonwood and willows took over at the narrowest stretch of the canyon, crowding the bank, making progress slow through the low branches. The remnant of a stone wall in the cliff face ten feet above the stream caught Kerney's eye.
Behind the wall was a natural cave, the mouth blackened from the soot of numerous campfires.
Small steps leading to the cave were chiseled out of soft rock under the opening.
Suddenly, the barranca opened on a pinon forest that spurted and stopped in the rangeiand of a high valley. They were off the mountain, Mangas Peak hidden from view by the foothills. Stiles remounted.
"Hold up," Kerney called to him.
Stiles turned in his saddle, and Kerney gave him the reins to his horse.
He walked back into the barranca, crossed the stream, climbed the stairs to the cave, and ducked inside.
The cave was deeper than Kerney expected. He sank to his knees under the low ceiling, waiting for his vision to adjust to the darkness, and listened for a sound. It came as shallow breathing.
"Who's there?" Kerney asked.
The breathing stopped.
Kerney raised his voice and asked the question again. He could hear Stiles climbing up to join him.
"Do not hurt me," a shaky voice answered in Spanish. It came from a small room at the back of the cave.
Kerney crawled toward the voice on his hands and knees, answering in Spanish.
"I am a policeman," he said.
"No one will hurt you." He could see the shape of a man pressed against the rock wall, his body shaking.
"Policia," he said again.
"Policia," the man repeated, unbelieving.
"Yes," Kerney replied softly. Eyesight adjusted to the dim light, he could see the man more clearly. Old and thin the way some men get as the body wears out, he was curled up with his knees to his chest. Kerney reached for his hand. It was wet and trembling.
The man's clothing was soaked.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I do not know," the old man moaned, his voice breaking.
"I cannot remember."
"What have you got?" Stiles called from outside the cave.
Kerney told him, and Jim crawled in to see for himself. Together they carried the man out of the cave and across the stream into the sunlight.
The old man's lips were blue, his pulse rapid and uneven, and shaking racked his body. He was losing core heat. They stripped off his clothes, and Kerney dried him with a towel from his saddlebags while Stiles fetched a blanket. Wrapped in the blanket, the old man still shivered. Kerney started a small fire, and after warming his hands over the flames, rubbed them on the man's clammy skin. He kept repeating the process while Stiles checked the soaked clothing for identification.
"Anything?" Kerney asked.
"Nope," Stiles answered.
"But these aren't any cheap threads. We got designer labels here. How did you know he was in the cave?"
"The steps were wet," Kerney explained.
"It took a minute for it to register. The cave is too high above the stream for any water to reach it. He must have scrambled in when he heard us coming."
"I didn't notice," Stiles said. He keyed the handheld radio to call for help, then took his finger off the button.
"You don't see too many people hiking in the mountains wearing expensive city clothes.
What's this old man been up to?"
Kerney shrugged as he kept rubbing the man with his hands.
Stiles leaned over and spoke in the old man's ear.
"Who are you?"
The old man looked at Stiles, his eyes blinking rapidly.
"Ask him in Spanish," Kerney counseled.
Stiles tried again, this time in Spanish.
"I do not know," the old man answered haltingly.
"Where did you come from?" Stiles inquired.
"Mexican Hat," the man answered, his teeth chattering.
"Where were you yesterday? Last night?" Stiles prodded.
"Mexican Hat," the man repeated.
"Damn," Stiles said, looking at Kerney and shaking his head in disbelief.
"What the hell is an old t in a place where people aren't supposed to be?"
"Beats me," Kerney replied.
"Call it in. Let's get this old guy to a hospital."
Stiles switched to the state police frequency, keyed the unit, and made contact. He asked for a chopper from Silver City and paramedics.
"The only place called Mexican Hat I know of is in southern Utah,"
Stiles said, when he was finished talking on the radio.
"A small town near the Arizona border."
Kerney shook his head.
"I don't think that's where he came from."
"How in the hell did he get here?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," Kerney answered.
"Let's get him warmed up."
Stiles put away the radio and joined Kerney.
Together they massaged the old man until his trembling started to subside.
"He's going to make it," Stiles predicted.
Kerney wasn't so sure; there was a nasty bruise on the man's temple, and his eyes were unfocused.
The rescue helicopter made good time, and Stiles used the radio to guide it in. It landed as close to the mouth of the canyon as it could. Two men carrying backpacks and a stretcher hiked quickly up the hillside.
The old man's breathing had improved, and a bit of color was back. The paramedics took over, wrapped him in more blankets, got an IV started, and carted him on the stretcher to the waiting chopper.
"Where are you taking him?" Kerney asked, as he walked alongside the stretcher. The old man wouldn't let go of Kerney's hand.
"Gila Regional in Silver City," one of the paramedics answered.
"You guys did a good job."
"Take care of him."
"No problem. He looks like a tough old bird," the paramedic answered.
Kerney had to pry his hand free as the old man was lifted into the chopper.
"You're going to be fine," he said in Spanish.
"Cariotta," the old man whispered.
Kerney leaned closer.
"Who is Cariotta? Your daughter? Your wife?" he asked.
The man looked confused.
"My wife," he said.
"You should know that, little one. She is your grandmother."
"Where is Grandmother?"
"Dead."
"Was she with you last night?" Kerney insisted.
The man shook his head sadly.
"I'm not sure. You are a good boy. Hector. Take care of my father's sheep."
The chopper pilot waved Kerney away before he could question the old man further. He walked back to Stiles.
"Did the old man say anything?" Jim asked.
"He rambled on a bit in Spanish."
"Could you make anything out?"
"He called me Hector and said Cariotta was dead."
"So he speaks English," Jim ventured.
"No."
"Did he use the word muerto for dead?"
"That's what I heard," Kerney answered.
"Cariotta, who could that be?" "His esposa, he said."
"Exposa, that means wife. Damn! I should have gone with you. My Spanish is pretty good. Maybe I could have gotten more out of him."
"Maybe," Kerney allowed.
"But while we're looking for that mountain lion, I think we'd better keep an eye out for at least one or two lost people."
"Lost or dead," Stiles replied. He wadded up the old man's clothes and expensive oxford shoes and stuffed them into the saddlebags.